She was saying good-bye to childhood and home, and her making; she was going out into the great, multitudinous world; this time there would be no returning. Some rustic hand had written upon the door "JACK SHEPPARD'S CAGE;" and upon the wall was affixed a large placard describing his person, and offering a reward for his capture. She pushed. Was there anything at all in those locked rooms of her aunt’s mind? Were they fully furnished and only a little dusty and cobwebby and in need of an airing, or were they stark vacancy except, perhaps, for a cockroach or so or the gnawing of a rat? What was the mental equivalent of a rat’s gnawing? The image was going astray. "I am expected, I find," observed Jack, glancing at the well-covered board. In a second the glass lay shattered upon the carpet. She leaned a little towards him.
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